by Stuart Clark
He never did see the daughter that their reunion had produced. Lieserl breathed her last following a bout of scarlet fever shortly after birth and her body now lay in Mileva’s hometown, in a grave he had never visited.
‘Oh, you are kind,’ said Käte, interrupting his thoughts as she retrieved her hat from his hand.
Freundlich was watching him curiously. ‘I must apologise that I haven’t brought back any results.’
Einstein shrugged. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. The effect is in no doubt in my mind, theoretically at least. The observations are just detail.’
‘But surely you need confirmation?’
‘Only to convince others,’ said Einstein with bravado.
There was a young blond man behind Freundlich, gawping around the station as though he had never seen it before.
‘I can’t believe I’m home,’ said Mechau, grinning sheepishly. He turned to shake Freundlich’s hand warmly and, with a few final words of friendship, disappeared into the crowd.
Freundlich reached down and took Käte’s hand, saying, ‘Time for us to leave, too. Thank you for coming today, Albert. You may remember that I paid you a lot of attention on my honeymoon, so you will forgive me if I do not make the same mistake today.’
Einstein forced a smile. ‘Of course. You know where to find me.’
The couple headed off.
‘Let’s talk soon,’ Einstein called after them.
Walking briskly to keep out the cold, he entered Alexanderplatz and caught the sound of a woman’s cries over the noises of the trams and the people. She was rail-thin and had collapsed beneath the casualty lists posted up on the side of a building. An ashen-faced man was trying to comfort her and lift her back to her feet, but her spindly limbs had no strength in them. The more he tried, the harsher became her cries of anguish.
Another man, elderly in oldfashioned clothing, was berating the woman for treacherous behaviour, telling her that her son had died for the greater good of the Fatherland. ‘Why can’t you be content with that? You should be rejoicing!’
The husband managed to haul his wife to her feet. He gave the other man a beseeching look but the tirade continued.
‘Look at me. Both my sons have died in Belgium and I’d gladly have died with them. It would have be an honour.’
The woman looked suddenly murderous. ‘I would gladly exchange my life for his. What do I have to live for now?’
Einstein saw the sting of it on her husband’s face. What happened when a wife turned into a mother? It was bad enough when they turned from lover to wife, but upon the first child the husband became almost irrelevant.
Einstein’s own assessment shocked him. He did not hate women. Did he? No, it was Mileva poisoning his mind. Today’s letter had been hectoring: had he remembered that his next payment to them was due? – Yes! Would he write to Hans Albert? – I do!
He turned away and hurried across the square. He needed to see Elsa and prove to himself that he was not as cold-hearted as he suddenly feared.
She looked overjoyed to see him, but danced out of his way and proffered only her cheek when he stepped close to embrace her. ‘This is a surprise, Albertle. I have somebody here I’d like you to meet.’
‘Meet?’
‘Yes, meet. He’s in the sitting room.’
Einstein felt his plans slipping away. The affectionate chat, the compliments he had planned to offer as balm against his decision to stay in his own apartment. Perhaps he could have coaxed a giggle from her. That would have been a coup. She usually met his humour with a shake of her head, even though he could see from her shining eyes that she wanted to laugh.
He entered the parlour and a man yelped in surprise and jumped to his feet. The reaction was so sharp that Einstein wondered for a moment what he had interrupted. The startled individual was tall and slim, dressed in a well-tailored three-piece suit of charcoal-coloured wool. Einstein estimated that they were of similar ages, yet the stranger was rendered younger by not having acquired much in the way of self-confidence. He wiped a hand along the sharp line of his dark trousers and thrust it forwards. It was clammy in Einstein’s grip.
‘Praise God you’ve come, Herr Einstein!’
‘I hope that’s metaphorically speaking,’ said Einstein warily. The man floundered immediately, looking around and blinking furiously.
‘Now, now, don’t tease him with your own lack of faith, Albertle. Take no notice, Georg, he was only teasing,’ said Elsa with a warning look.
Actually, I wasn’t, thought Einstein.
‘This is Georg Nicolai, he’s a friend of Ilse’s and a doctor at the university,’ she continued.
‘Physiologist, really,’ he said apologetically to Einstein. ‘Sir, I came here today to ask if you have seen the paper this morning.’ Einstein shook his head; this was becoming more tedious by the moment.
‘Here.’ Georg handed him a newspaper, folded open at an article entitled Appeal to the Cultured World.
As representatives of German science and art, we hereby protest to the civilised world against the lies and calamities with which our enemies are endeavouring to stain the honour of Germany in her hard struggle for existence – in a struggle that has been forced on her.
Einstein read in disbelief. It was nothing but a list of excuses and double-talk for the atrocities being perpetrated in Belgium. It was common gossip that the wanton destruction at Louvain was a means of teaching the Belgians to respect Germany. Yet here the academics were claiming that only small parts of the city had been set alight and that the deed had been undertaken by troops with ‘aching hearts’, to punish the civilian population for their resistance to occupation.
‘Who are these representatives of German science? I was not approached!’ Einstein exploded, making Nicolai flinch.
There was a long list of signatories: Haber and Nernst he could have predicted, but one name shocked him. Planck! He flung the paper to the floor. ‘Outrageous!’
Nicolai edged forward. ‘May I show you my response?’
‘How can you respond to that?’ Einstein shot a finger at the scattered sheets on the rug.
‘With a counter-manifesto, signed by other representatives of German science and art. We will call for educated men of all countries to come together and help to end this war. There must be a united Europe in which even the possibility of war does not exist. There can be no victors in this war. Either Germany will gain new ground from countries that will forever resent our presence, or we’ll be so heavily defeated that our people will suffer for years. Either way, it breeds more contempt and more reason for future wars. We must find a way to stop it once and for all.’
Einstein looked into the man’s face. ‘I misjudged you, Georg. I’m pleased to have made your acquaintance.’
Georg’s eyes darted away in embarrassment. He bashfully fumbled with a sheet of paper, handing it over. Its message was written in elegant handwriting. ‘Please edit in any way you see fit. We are not the Europe of four hundred years ago, ready to go war on a whim. Battles are no longer fought on fields but over entire countries. Civilians are being slaughtered by fully armed troops …’
‘Save your words, Georg. Don’t look hurt, I mean you no disrespect. I want you to save them for those who need to hear them. I need no convincing. I’ll take your document to Max tomorrow for signing.’
‘You’ll take it to Planck?’
Einstein nodded.
Nicolai’s doubtful expression accentuated his sharp features.
‘But he signed the manifesto.’
‘No! Max would never knowingly put his name to such a document. You don’t know him as I do. He must have been duped.’ Einstein brandished the manuscript. ‘I will take your work to Max myself and get him to sign. You’ll see what he really thinks then.’
Planck looked as if he had not slept in a week. His face was haggard and his eyes were darkly ringed. He kept lifting his glasses and squinting at the document Einstein had thrust in front of hi
m. As he read, he seemed to shrivel into the office chair. Einstein rocked expectantly in front of the desk, hands clasped behind his back.
At length Planck laid the sheet of paper on his desk and smoothed it with his hands.
‘I cannot sign this,’ he said sadly.
‘Why ever not?’
‘I cannot put my name to something I do not wholeheartedly support.’
‘But, Max, you signed that vile piece of work in the newspaper.’ Planck’s chest heaved; he unwound his wire glasses from his ears and massaged the lobes. ‘Yes, I did.’ His voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
‘Then why not this one?’
‘Because I believed in what it said.’ Einstein shook his head. ‘Impossible.’
Planck looked at him. ‘You don’t know the full story of Belgium, Albert. You’re too quick to assume German villainy, but Belgium had agreed to the occupation of its lands by British and French forces to defend it against Germany. We would have been mad not to pre-empt that threat.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘If you listened to the discussions at the Academy instead of storming off, you would know it, too. Some of the members are very well connected. The French are using dum-dum bullets to rip our boys apart despite it being specifically forbidden by international law.’
‘And that’s why it has to stop. I saw a woman break down in the street a few days ago. Her son had been killed and she was inconsolable, couldn’t even accept the comfort of her own husband. Last night I was writing to Hans Albert and I realised what it must be like to lose a son. Not just to have one taken to another country, but to lose him for all eternity.’ Planck was absentmindedly stroking his drooping moustache. Einstein plunged on. ‘We’re both family men. Our sons – everyone’s sons – are a precious commodity. They shouldn’t be wasted in slaughter …’
‘Erwin is missing,’ Planck said quietly.
‘No, he’s back. I’ve seen him myself. He …’
Planck shook his head slowly. ‘Not Freundlich, my Erwin. They think he was taken by the French.’
‘Then, Max, how can you defend the war?’
‘We are cast as demons by the old powers. England, France, Russia; they don’t want us challenging their empires. So, they write fictions about our motives and us.’ Planck’s voice grew in volume. ‘A strong Germany is a threat to them; they’ll stop at nothing to keep us down. They’re the aggressors, not us. We’re striking back against them before they have the chance to attack. I hate the war as much as you. But it is a just and honest war. I’m not going to insult you by saying it’s glorious. We both know war can never be that; but sometimes it can be inevitable and necessary.’
‘Even if it comes at the price of your own son?’
Planck was stony-faced. ‘Even if it comes at such a price,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘These past weeks I have clung to the notion that all Europe has been going mad around me. But now I sense there has been madness in me as well. I thought I could just sit it out and wait for everyone else to come to their senses. How could I have been so naive? Surely, the madness is for me to let it happen unchallenged?’
Planck replaced his glasses and held up Nicolai’s manifesto. ‘I will not sign this. Now is not the time for apologies. Don’t alienate yourself, Albert. Not now. It’ll only reflect badly on you after the victory.’
The unexpected steeliness in Planck’s voice ignited Einstein.
‘Was that a threat?’
Planck’s round eyes took on the expression of a disappointed father. ‘You have to stop pretending that you’re bulletproof, otherwise there’ll be no place for you in Berlin.’
Einstein snatched the sheet from Planck’s hands. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake to come here in the first place. I was under the illusion that you were one of the most intelligent men in the world.’
The wind was bitter that evening when Einstein stopped at the flower stall near the station. This late in the year the selection was seriously depleted, and prices were high from having to transport the stock up from Italy. He selected a single red bloom, handed over some money to the shivering flower-boy and hurried on his way, catching snatches of conversations from the other pedestrians.
‘Of course it will,’ one man was saying. ‘Victory in six months, mark my words. There’ll be a big push, everyone’s talking about it.’
Einstein blew out an angry breath and crossed the road. The street lamps glowed feebly, drooping like huge dewdrops from their iron armatures.
A German victory would be a disaster. It would embolden the Kaiser’s imperial ambitions beyond imagination. Einstein could just hear the crowing and the arrogance. It was unthinkable.
But the alternative …
One only had to read between the lines to see the truth. The longer Belgium resisted, the more entrenched the frontline would become; there would be stalemate and standoff. Germany would be isolated and the country besieged.
Einstein did not know which conclusion to hope for. Victory or defeat: each was as appalling as the other.
He was still mulling over the awful possibilities when he arrived at his destination, a tall house with curtains so heavy against the coming winter that there was no sign of life inside. He straightened his shoulders and worked the bell-pull.
Max Planck opened the front door. He bristled at first sight of his visitor, but then his posture softened as he saw the red flower and his face filled with understanding.
Two summers before, Haber had dispatched Planck and Nernst to Zurich to woo Einstein to Berlin. He could still remember the dizzy feeling as they laid out their offer in the busy station café: a professorship at the university with no teaching duties but the highest salary possible; a membership of the Prussian Academy of Sciences, carrying a stipend; and the promise of a directorship of his own institute of physics once funds became available.
They told him how Berlin was growing so rapidly that it would soon be the engine not just of Europe but of the world. All he had to do to share in this new power was leave Zurich and its mountain walks behind.
But Einstein had understood the personal price he would end up paying; he had seen it that morning as clearly as he had watched the waiter mop the bar. Living in the same city as Elsa would be too much. His marriage to Mileva was already strained; having his cousin around would lead to its disintegration. The letters he was already exchanging with Elsa convinced him of that.
So, he asked for time, conjuring looks of incomprehension on the faces of his tempters.
The next morning he had still not made his decision. In the moonlight he had studied Mileva’s face and seen enough in her soft contours to remind him of why they had originally fallen in love. Yet the lure of Berlin was an almost irresistible force.
To give himself more time he had packed off Planck and Nernst on a train journey that took them winding through the scenic foothills. On their return, he told them, he would be carrying a single flower. No words would be necessary. If it were white, he was staying with the snowy peaks of Zurich. But if it were red, he was changing his life irrevocably. He would not just move to Berlin, he would declare his intellectual allegiance to Planck, Nernst and Haber.
Back that summer, with the sun so high that he could see Nernst hanging out of the carriage window before the train was anywhere near the platform, he had greeted them holding the red flower of acceptance.
Nernst had raised his arms in triumph. Planck’s eyes had creased with a smile and a single nod.
Now it was winter, eighteen months later, and everything was different. Nevertheless, Einstein held out another red flower.
Silhouetted in the yellow lamplight from his hall, Planck looked at the proffered bloom. ‘Come in, my friend,’ he said, ‘you must be frozen.’
7
Diksmuide
Physics textbooks were not the only reading matter Lemaître had brought with him from Brussels. He also had his Bible. When he was sent back from the front li
ne to snatch some rest, his thoughts were normally too frenetic to allow him to sleep right away. Only if a battle had worn on for the whole day would he be exhausted enough to sink straight into unconsciousness, but then his dreams would fill with the day’s horrors. So, whenever he could, he read silently by the tent in the flickering firelight.
Once some sense of equilibrium had returned, he would pray for the souls of his fallen friends and for his brother’s safe deliverance. Jacques had been stationed further north, up along the Yser River, where the gossip said the fighting was just as fierce. Lemaître would hear tales of shells falling into the river and producing waterspouts dozens of feet high that soaked the troops, leaving them to dry out in the bitter winds. Jacques hated to be wet, and used to complain all the way home if the clouds had burst while they had been out cycling.
Then would come the most difficult part of Lemaître’s nightly ritual. He would replay the enemy casualties he had witnessed that day and pray for their deliverance too.
Sometimes he saw them fall to the ground, animate one moment but leaden the next. At other times, he noticed them just as bundles of clothing in the mud, or sprawled at awkward angles. Occasionally, they would simply vanish in the explosions. It was impossible for him to imagine the shock to their souls as they were ripped from their mortal lodgings, and so he relived the moments of their deaths and asked God to welcome them.
Otherwise, he reasoned, there would be no one praying for them for days, perhaps even weeks, because of the time it would take for the news of their demise to filter home. There would be parents going about their days in ignorance because the lines of communication were so slow. When the moment came for them to open the telegram and for the pain to cut into them, their son would have been dead for weeks.
Only God could know the exact state of the world as it happened, thought Lemaître. Human perception would always be thwarted by physical limitations. So he prayed on behalf of all the anonymous parents, while all the time thinking about his own.